“And as a woman,” I said, looking back at him, “my duty is to myself — and I have neglected that one for six years to be the person all of you decided I was.
My lawyer will bring the divorce papers to this room in the morning.”
I had thought, on the drive to the hospital, that if this moment ever came I would feel torn — that the two things would be at war in me, the doctor who had to save him and the woman who had to leave him, and that I would have to choose one and betray the other.
But standing at the foot of that bed, I understood that they were not at war at all.
They were the same thing, wearing two faces.
The doctor saves the life in front of her because every life is worth saving, regardless of what the person did, regardless of whether she loves him; that is a discipline, a vow, a refusal to let her own feelings decide who lives.